


Split Leviticus

by Siren_whispers



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen, No Plot/Plotless, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-11 22:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17455586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siren_whispers/pseuds/Siren_whispers
Summary: Without any kind of supernatural clairvoyance to speak of he couldn't predict what would become of his innocent question.“What if God is real?”OrIsak's relationship with religion





	Split Leviticus

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a mess and the first thing I've ever written for Skam. Also, I really don't mean any offense to religious people, I promise. I don't know how this might come across but I can promise that was not my intention and i am trying to descrive things as characters might perceive them.

Isak's mother hadn't always believed in God and she hadn't always been so bad, thrown between episodes as if she were the ball in some sick game of catch. Isak had never heard her talk about God before, not really, when he brought the topic up. He was young and his mother had been fine for a while. Without any kind of supernatural clairvoyance to speak of he couldn't predict what would become of his innocent question.  
“What if God is real?” he had asked one day over dinner.   
“So what if he is?” His father responded, not understanding how his 9-year-old son could be more concerned about the concepts that may or may not be the truth to the universe than the food that sat on the plate before him, homemade but untouched.  
“He wouldn't like us,” Isak had found himself spiralling into a wikipedia wormhole as he often did, finding out things he didn't need to know but was eager not to forget. He had blinked as the words on the screen stared back at him. The fool says in his heart, “There is no God.” They are corrupt, doing abominable iniquity; there is none who does good. “He thinks we're abominable, corrupt. We don't do good things,”  
“And why is that?” his mother leaned forwards on her hands and he wished he had noticed the way they started to shake, tremors and quakes moving pale fingers as she linked them together and hid them beneath her chin. He should have noticed, shut up, let the conversation rest. But he didn't because he was nothing but a child who couldn't foresee how much introducing his mother to God would change things.  
“Because we don't believe in him.”

Within the week Isak's mother had convinced herself that God was real and was trying so hard to get him and his father to think the same. His dad didn't think twice about it as he picked up the bible she offered and flicked through the pages he had read and listened to a number of in the times of his Catholic youth.  
Isak let himself be swept away in her new obsession and he too began to read the pages that slipped between his fingers as he attempted to turn them. It was as though the words themselves were trying to escape him.  
He knew he couldn't believe a word of it, was too devoted to his sciences to excuse certain things as being metaphorical instead of disproven and wrong.  
Still, he thought he could do it for his mother, to keep her as stable as they could while she found something to love more than she loved him. He thought he could read every page, every word even if he didn't understand half of them. He thought he could pretend to have faith in something over than the knowledge that the world would keep turning for at least a little longer and the sun wouldn't turn supernova in the next week.  
But the more he read through the pages the more he found things he couldn't agree with, things that made him feel uneasy. The idea of his mother succumbing to such outdated concepts, believing them wholeheartedly, devoting herself to protecting those ideals was sickening, a cause of disquietude. Still, Isak had to admit to himself it was far from unfathomable.

...just as Sodom and Gomorrah and the surrounding cities, which likewise indulged in sexual immorality and pursued unnatural desire, serve as an example by undergoing a punishment of eternal fire.

If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them.

God gave them up to dishonourable passions. For their women exchanged natural relations for those that are contrary to nature; and the men likewise gave up natural relations with women and were consumed with passion for one another, men committing shameless acts with men and receiving in themselves the due penalty for their error.

At first Isak didn't understand the strength of his aversion to those passages. He would call himself sympathetic if asked (though he was never asked), sympathetic to a group of people who had suffered historically and continued to suffer.  
But then he could feel himself changing after a couple of years had passed. The way he thought began to shift and every time he looked at his best friend, finally growing into his big ears and that too-big smile, he felt this rush he couldn't identify. His heart felt like it was failing as it giddily skipped beats and, after it skipped one time too many, it fell to his feet, his stomach beside it. He realised.  
He wanted to cry, right there in the middle of the biology lesson with Jonas right beside him, messing with the focus on the microscope so much, tongue tucked between his teeth, that Isak wondered how he'd ever be able to see a thing.  
He wanted to laugh, bitter and angry but at least not pitiful like shedding tears all over a page of that messy handwriting he couldn't seem to straighten out. He supposed he had more important things to straighten. So he did, right in the middle of a classroom full of preteens all chatting amiably with their friends as they looked in awe at little glass slides. He laughed, the sound dark and heavy as it rose through him. It wasn't his laugh, Jonas knew it, it wasn't bright or amused, it was pained and seemed to be saying so much more than anyone could interpret from it.  
When he got home that day he saw his bible sitting on his dresser. His mother had definitely put it there. He tried to study but it was like the stupid book had eyes and they were boring into his back every time he turned away.  
He put down his pen with a heavy sigh and turned to stare at the book before he found himself getting angry at nothing.

His mother would hate him for tearing pages of God's word but he wasn't thinking as he did it, tearing out those pages of Jude, Leviticus, Romans and every other section he could find that felt as though they were damning him. He looked at the crumpled up pages in his hands and felt the heat in his florid skin. His heart raced too hard in his chest and he wanted nothing more than to lose it and all the traces of the love it held and he didn't want to feel.  
The pages began to shake as he suddenly felt the tears he had been blinking away all day spill down his cheeks, somehow both soothing his burning cheeks with their coolness and irritating his skin further as they dried in hot trails.  
He hadn’t asked for it. If there were a god he wouldn't have drawn this stupid fucking straw. If any of his mother's precious beliefs were true he would die in agony and live in agony, both before and after his death.  
He felt his breath hitch in his throat as he could do nothing to resist the ache and pull of the sobs that claimed his body as their own and made him relinquish it. He'd gladly give it up.

Years passed and Isak grew more and more distant from his parents with each one. His lies became more concrete and his retorts became sharper. He couldn't let them or anyone else find out, couldn't show weakness or a crack in his defenses. He could lie about anything or keep his face schooled as he felt a wave of panic or wash of sadness.  
He wondered when these new mannerisms became known as a part of him, his defining features to some, when he still felt mean a moment after the words had left his lips.  
He was a brick wall with solid foundations and too much cement and his mother was on a swing, from one person to the next, sweet and caring to spreading the word of God as though it were her own, deluded by her own brain into thinking she had a grander purpose.  
His dad couldn't take it anymore so he left and Isak found a new thing to resent, alongside the words of some entity he didn’t believe in but couldn't shake. He couldn't help but stare at his dad's picture on the walls with what he chose to call spite when any onlooker would say it was regret or guilt.  
His mother could be a dictionary on sin and, when his father left spewing some bullshit about how he couldn't take care of the woman he was meant to love as she deteriorated, she grew fearful. Her husband leaving was almost a sure sign he'd be filing for divorce soon and the idea of being a sinner tore her up. She didn't hide it; she fell deep into an episode that left her sending him texts every day about the word of the God he couldn't tell her he didn't believe in one bit. She didn't speak in her own words anymore, only babbling quotes she recalled from memory that Isak couldn't make sense of. Even though they were speaking the same language there was a language barrier Isak just couldn't break through.  
He couldn't make her love her like she had last week, love anything the way she had before. Her eyes were glazed and she screamed incoherently at Isak. He responded by getting her little plastic cups full of water or juice that she couldn't shatter or burn anyone with. He watched her, kept her away from the kettle and the stove and the knives, knowing how her episodes could mean her hurting herself or him. It was never on purpose but the boiling water she threw and sharpened metal she waved didn't care.

She still couldn't love anything outside of her previous bible weeks later and she had found Isak’s own torn-up copy he had never managed to properly dispose if sitting in his sock drawer and suddenly she was worse. She wasn't in her right mind and, honestly, neither was he.  
He slipped on a jacket that was certainly too thin to ward of the attacking weather, pulled on his snapback (for once the right way around) hoping the shadow it cast over his face would disguise the discolouration under his eyes.  
He walked through the city, not caring about the way the darkness set in and the unsavoury characters appeared alongside it. In that moment he didn't think he would have cared were there a knife on his neck, an ultimatum to make him give up anything of value upon his person. Perhaps and ultimatum might stop him walking, knowing exactly what and where his destination was.  
There was no ultimatum that night. Instead there was pulsing music that played through speakers, their booming baselines pounding in time with the awful headache he could feel building before he let any alcohol touch his lips. There were dancing bodies, somehow growing headless as the night went on and all Isak could see was their confidence as they pressed against each other and fabric, some wearing much more of it than others, was disturbed. There was too much to drink, a glass in his hand constantly as he threw away his money and thanked the god he was sure hated him for his fake ID.  
There was an encroaching blackness that began at the edges and worked its way inwards until it was all he could dill, winding through his veins and filling his lungs.  
Then there was a voice he didn't think he recognised but couldn't be convinced he didn't; it sounded as though it were being spoken from under water, garbled and morphed until each word barely resembled itself.  
Then there were warm hands and kind gestures Isak would have truly appreciated if he could remember them.

There was an escape from his God-fearing mother.

It didn't take long for Isak to realise that, if he had faith in any deity, it wouldn't be one that wanted you to fear it.

The biblical texts from his crazy mother persisted and Isak didn't think he liked that word. Crazy, perhaps it wasn't what it was, but Isak had no other name for it available. His mother refused any kind of help so he couldn't tell you what it was that made her the way she was. He was sure if you asked his mother he knew the answer she would provide:  
God.

Isak was lucky weed didn't do to him what anger and alcohol did. He got high with his friends and talked about girls like he knew he should and still managed to pretend he was telling the truth.  
He kissed a girl and her lips felt too soft under his, every sound she made too high pitched and feminine. He moved his hand to her waist to pull her closer and keep uo the act he had wanted to drop for so fucking long he couldn't remember what the truth tasted like - the only thing he could taste was this girl’s mouth and he knew that was meant to be a good thing. He could feel the way her hips flared a little from her narrow waist and her narrow shoulders pushed closer to him still and he just wished he could change the shape, have it taper downwards instead of curve in soft lines.   
He led her on and felt bad about it but couldn't admit to anyone, not even himself, that the only thing he felt when she tried to make his mouth hers and pushed her slender hands against his chest was the urge to be alone.

Even Bech Næsheim. It was a name Isak wanted to say so loudly that even his mother's imaginary God would hear it. He wanted to declare to that God that he was what had been so strictly condemned in the past. But he couldn't admit to God what he couldn't admit to himself.  
Even Bech Næsheim. It was a name that clawed at his defenses enough to weaken them significantly. He watched as the tall boy walked with ease, like he knew everything. And for Isak time passed with a delay. He fought the urge to whisper “oh my god,” as Even winked and Isak knew it couldn't be aimed at anybody else.  
Don't. He told himself. Don't use the Lord's name in vain. Don't give religion another reason to hate you.

Even Bech Næsheim became something more in Isak's life than a name, or gravity-defying hair, or cardamom toasties. He became a constant. And as he constantly grew closer to Isak it was time for him to confront himself.  
Isak wasn't gay, he had told himself that for years, but then he was and he couldn't bring himself to say the word because admitting it felt like accepting an obligation. If he accepted he would have to share, tell his father, his mother, his friends.

Then he couldn't avoid it anymore and no one seemed to hate him for it so he wondered if maybe God's ideas had changed like those of his people. There were a few more bumps, a stint of mania and an incident of public nudity, but Even remained a constant figure. Isak hadn't had one before. Not really. He out distance between people and they let it grow. Even chased him and he was glad.  
But there were still things people said, comments from strangers on the street and on public transport who would look at him and see something more disgusting than a lovestruck teenager. A sodomite, a disgrace, a sinner. They used other words too and Isak couldn’t help but deny himself of the comfort of knowledge in those moments. There were times he wanted just to be able to deny it but he couldn't live with the persistent lies all the time. He knew not all followers of his mother's religion or any other had let the times shape their opinions as much as words that were relevant in past millennia.  
What was worse than the strangers were the kids at school. The comments in changing rooms and hallways, the recital of the lines from the bible he had memorised without meaning to and would be haunted by for as long as he lived and in any afterlife that may or may not exist.

He was talking to Sana, sat on the bench and listening to her problems because she had a lot to share. Growing up a muslim girl and growing up a gay youth were different things and he knew it. But he also knew the perspective that Sana didn't.  
“You're right,” he said quietly “They're different and people can't tell when they look at me unless I'm with Even but it still hurts. You know I grew up thinking religion hated me? I had no faith to turn to when I suffered so I suffered in silence and I didn't get the words of abuse from other people. I got those from myself. The first person who learns to hate you for what you are when nobody knows is yourself. You learn to hate yourself from snide remarks the people you love think are harmless jokes, are forced to realise just how behind you are when you hear about all these countries passing laws dictating that you have only just been granted a human right. And there are so many people who aren't happy about it that you have to wonder how it's gonna hurt them. You have to tell people and watch them look confused, angry, disgusted, pitying. And people can tell when you're with your boyfriend and the words of abuse are there and you know the statistics, that, like other minorities, the abuse is bound to escalate to something more eventually.” Sana pretended not to notice the tears on his cheeks and wondered if he was really talking ro her or clarifying things for himself “ Look, you're right, you went through things growing up that I never did, but I went through things you didn't. Can we just agree growing up was pretty shit for both of us and no one should have these problems?”  
She laughed, not quite humorous but not bitter either “Of course… best bud,”


End file.
